CRIME AND BANDITRY, DISTRESS AND PERPLEXITY WILL INCREASE UNTIL THE BISHOPS OPEN JOANNA SOUTHCOTT’S BOX.
‘This is an adventure!’ Grace whispers beside me. ‘It is a long time since I have been to London.’
‘Me too.’ Several times a year Father was called to meetings at St Paul’s, and sometimes he would take us with him. If there was time, we’d end the day with a rock bun or Shrewsbury biscuit; but for him the real treat was always riding on the train. We would stand on the platform and watch the engine race in, a shock of white hair streaming behind it in the wind. ‘Here she comes,’ he used to say. He always knew the right spot to stand, so that when the driver pulled the whistle we would be swallowed in a screeching cloud of steam.
Today it was Emily who sat beside me in the carriage. Grace took the seat opposite and I spent the journey trying not to stare at her. When the train went through a tunnel, my eyes reached out to her in secret, and I could almost taste her on my lips, an imagined kiss stolen in the safety of the dark. She smiled at me but Emily didn’t notice: she was busy with her copy of the Telegraph. ‘Have you seen this?’ she said, in a voice that told us we were all expected to listen. ‘Mr Price has written to the bishops himself,’ she said. ‘Though I doubt he’ll have any more luck than we have. Here … My Lord Bishop, et cetera, et cetera, the public opening of Joanna Southcott’s box …’ She paused to put on her reading glasses. ‘As your Lordship knows, a considerable amount of superstitious tradition has grown up around this box, supposed to contain a divine revelation. The box could, of course, be opened without any formality – Oh could it indeed? – One feels, however, a natural reluctance to violate the definite wishes of a dying woman no matter how misguided.’
With this she rolled her eyes. ‘He says he should like to open the box in circumstances in accordance with her dying injunctions. But what does it matter? He doesn’t have Joanna’s box. Why won’t they be told?’
Nobody answered her, except the rain which was drumming an accompaniment to the train’s rhythmic song. But what if he does, it said. What if he does, what if he does?
*
We shelter under the arch of the Dean’s Yard at Westminster, unsure whether to make a run across the quadrant, or wait. There’s no rain now, but the air is still heavy with the threat of it. Racing clouds have stalled and come to rest on the roof of the abbey, no longer able to bear their own weight. The wind has dropped and the storm that railed in the distance fallen silent; but I can feel it is coming, creeping across the river, biding its time. There’s a whisper in the air, a crackle of electricity like the fizz of an electric bulb, and as London holds its breath to hear it, the sky explodes: a flash of white lightning, a clap of thunder so close that I shut my eyes and wait for the bricks above me to fall. Then all I hear is the sudden pounding of rain where the shock has cracked the clouds apart.
A thinning of the space between our world and the next. That’s what Grace said when she came to visit that first day, when we felt joy, when we felt the touch of the Lord. But tonight the sky is being shattered; tonight the God of the Old Testament is tearing through it, the God of punishment and vengeance. I know what Octavia would say, that the Lord is raining down His judgement on Harry Price’s blasphemy.
‘I think we’ll just have to make a dash for it,’ Emily says, checking her watch. ‘It is five to seven.’ We lift our umbrellas and start to run, shrieking as we jump over puddles, laughing as the muddy water splashes our stockings. All of us. Even Emily. We hear a cheer coming from the entrance of the building, and as we climb the steps towards it we are greeted with smiles from a small crowd of people. They have evidently been watching our sprint across the lawn with some amusement, and shuffle up to make room beneath the arched balcony offering shelter from the rain.
We are swept along into the foyer, sharing a brief moment of camaraderie: survivors of the storm, weak with laughter as we shake off our umbrellas and fix our hair. Nobody knows us here. Nobody knows who we are or why we have come.
But Emily won’t let us forget. ‘Are we all together?’ she says, her manner suddenly brusque. ‘Let’s go upstairs. We’ll be able to look down on everything from up there.’
She means look down on everyone.
The Opening
‘It reminds me of our Bunyan Meeting Church,’ Grace whispers as she takes a seat beside me on the balcony. She is right: high windows, pale cream on the walls, there’s even an altar of sorts (a table set out with three chairs behind it), and a full congregation. Every seat below has been filled, there must be three hundred people here tonight.
‘I think that’s him,’ she says, and it’s as if the whole room has heard her. Chatter fades to a low murmur as a man in a black dinner suit steps out from a doorway set into the oak-panelled wall. It is the man whose photograph we have seen in the newspapers. From this vantage point my view of him is distorted. He looks shorter than I expected, his oversized eyebrows trying a little too hard to compensate for a lack of hair on the top of his head. By the time he walks the few small steps to the table the room has fallen silent.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and members of the press,’ he says, holding out his arms then nodding to the cluster of men with cameras set up on stands. ‘Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr Harry Price of the National Laboratory of Psychical Research. Tonight I can promise that you will witness the opening of the box sealed up by Joanna Southcott. What I cannot promise is that its contents will save the world!’
There is laughter from the crowd below. Mr Price raises his hand to call for quiet. ‘First I should explain the provenance of what we are about to see. Joanna’s box arrived at my offices with a letter written by a man who has asked to remain anonymous. The paper bore the embossed heading of the Carlton Hotel and a telephone call to the manager confirmed that a man of the same name had recently been a guest. If you will bear with me I shall read an extract from it.’ He takes a letter from his chest pocket, unfolds it, clears his throat and starts to read.
SIR,
It is with some diffidence that I venture to send you the box herewith as I am not sure you will welcome it. For very many years my family had in our employment a seamstress and gardener – a sister and brother named Ann and John Morgan. These Morgans were the surviving children of a Mrs Rebecca Morgan (née Pegarth) who, as a young girl between the years 1798 and 1814, was the sole companion of Joanna Southcott. The box was entrusted to Rebecca by Joanna on her deathbed with the dying injunction that it was to be opened only in the time of dire national need and in the presence of a number of bishops.
‘Morgan,’ Grace whispers under her breath. ‘Dilys, is that the name? Is that the family who have the box?’ I don’t answer; I don’t know the answer. Octavia never told us who they were.
‘Dire national need!’ says Mr Price, looking up again with a grin. ‘It was easy for us to make the excuse that the country wanted saving,’ he laughs. ‘We had a wide choice of evils – from politicians to jazz – that we wanted to be rid of!’ He is enjoying this, enjoying the cheers from the crowd who have come to laugh at our beliefs. ‘This letter,’ he says, holding it up above his head, ‘states that Rebecca left the box to her son John, and before he died John asked our gentleman – the man who wrote this letter – to take charge of it.’
At the end of our row, Emily is getting to her feet. ‘Mr Price,’ she shouts in a voice strained by the effort of making itself heard. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself. You would have these people believe that you have Joanna’s box in your possession, but you know very well that it is a lie.’ Chatter breaks out across the room and members of the audience turn around in their seats. Mr Price shields his eyes from the lights to locate the source of the interruption, making a small bow in our direction.
‘Madam, I am confident that I can prove its pedigree. I have made a number of checks on the facts outlined in this letter which I will be happy to share in more detail with the gentlemen of the press. But for n
ow, if I may be permitted to continue—’
‘You shall not continue,’ she shouts. ‘I have come to give testimony of the true box and the power that it has to save this great nation.’ In the rows around us people start to jeer: Religious zealot, they say. Shut up. Let him speak.
‘Madam,’ says Mr Price, ‘if you wish to stay, then please sit down, otherwise I shall have to ask you to leave.’ She does as she is told, muttering to the rest of us: ‘These heathens shall see the Truth soon enough.’
Mr Price turns his attention back to the letter. ‘Now,’ he says, ‘where were we? The gentleman writes that as a lad he was allowed to look at the box as a reward for good behaviour. He says: It was always the Morgans’ most cherished possession and it is quite certain that the box as now forwarded is exactly as it was sealed by Joanna Southcott in 1814.’
Emily stands again. ‘Lies!’ she says. ‘All lies!’ but the audience shouts her down. Mr Price holds up his hand to silence them. ‘Madam,’ he says, looking up to the balcony once more, ‘can I assume that you are a member of the Panacea Society which sends out healing? If so, then I must inform you that our gentleman was well aware of your claim upon this box, but concluded …’ He pauses to quote the letter again. ‘… that it were much better that a corporate body should arrange for the opening.’
I should stand up and tell them that this is not how it is supposed to be. Octavia has promised the bishops will come. It won’t be long now. And then everything will be set for Jesus to return to us. None of us will have to suffer; no one will be hungry, or thirsty; we won’t want for anything any more. I should tell them about the fires already built in the grates, the bar of soap on every washstand, the polished silver on the sideboard. I should tell them that the Opening Room has been clad in oak, that Octavia has found the perfect spot on the perfect table.
The table where Grace sat.
What if they never come? she said. How can Octavia know the box is safe if She has never seen it? When She never leaves the house?
Emily shouts down again: ‘It is a different box. The true box is being kept safe until the bishops agree to open it.’
‘An interesting hypothesis,’ says Mr Price, ‘but your leader, Octavia, has declined my request to provide a photograph of it. Do you really expect twenty-four bishops to give up their time to come to Bedford for this “other box” when you can provide no proof?’
Grace reaches out beneath her coat which is lying across her knees. She finds my hand. You were right, I tell her in my head, the bishops aren’t coming, they’ll never come. Not after tonight. The sudden knowledge of it makes me dizzy.
‘Having heard its story, I think it is time to bring in the box itself,’ Mr Price announces, and on his signal a man carries it along the aisle between the seated spectators. I look down the row and see that Emily has sat back down. ‘Twelve and a half inches long by nine and a half inches wide,’ Mr Price tells the audience as it passes, ‘and weighing eleven pounds. It is strongly made, of walnut, much aged, held shut with two steel bands. And strong silk tapes with large black seals bearing the handsome head of a young George the Third.’
It is placed on the table in front of him and he steps back to inspect it like a surgeon might study a patient before lifting his scalpel. ‘The wood is inset with the initials J.S. in mother-of-pearl.’
‘J.S.!’ Grace whispers, placing her hands on the balcony and leaning forward to get a better view. ‘Joanna Southcott.’
What if this is the box?
What if it is? What if it is?
I whisper it under my breath like a prayer.
‘Dilys,’ Grace says, gently. ‘Calm down. Deep breaths. You’re all right.’
But I am not all right. The bishops aren’t coming. They are not coming because the box is here. Now. Harry Price is going to open it without them and what will happen when he does? Will God send His judgement upon all those present?
‘Deep breaths,’ Grace whispers.
All I can think of is the newspaper cuttings Octavia pastes inside Her book: floods and earthquakes, death and destruction, signs that we are in the End Times. What if the ceiling caves in under the heavy clouds that hang above the abbey? What if I die tonight?
How can God forgive me when I am not sorry for what I have done? For what I feel?
‘I invited ten mediums to put their so-called skills to the test – to do their best, or worst,’ says Harry Price. ‘Nearly every one said they believed this box contains manuscripts or books, which would be a pretty safe guess considering its provenance.’ A man steps forward and hands him a pair of heavy shears with which he cuts the first of the steel bands.
What if it is? What if it is?
I can’t keep up with what Mr Price is saying: something about the weapons of secular science and X-ray machines. ‘I am sure that Joanna’s prophetic soul never visualised the fact that – bishops or no bishops – the contents of her box could be examined without opening it,’ he says. ‘But after taking negatives through the box in various directions I was able to see the mysteries locked inside. Ladies and gentlemen, Joanna Southcott secured a number of her valuables – coins and jewellery – and put them in this box. No great surprise that a dying woman would do such a thing. But the photographs show an item that I certainly was not expecting …’ he says, pausing to tease the audience with a lengthy silence. ‘I can reveal to you now that inside this box Joanna Southcott sealed … a pistol!’
The crowd is brought to life; several people stand up in their seats; voices swell with excitement and is it fear? ‘Ladies and gentlemen, if I may …’ Raising his hand, he calls for order. ‘I admit I was concerned that the pistol had been wired in such a way as to discharge and kill a bishop or two. But I can assure you we have taken every precaution – the only person at risk of harm tonight is myself!’
The man with the shears steps forward again, cutting the second band and the silk tapes too. Mr Price takes up a crowbar in his right hand. ‘May I have absolute quiet, please?’
The room is silent, muscles are tensed, eyes straining.
‘I have to get out,’ I say. I stand and start to move down the row, stepping on Peter’s feet, pushing past Kate. I stumble over Emily’s legs and fall down into the aisle.
‘Dilys!’ she says, and I hear a shot, and I see a flash of light. Oh God, what has he done? What was waiting inside the box to punish him? I can smell something acrid and sour: the scent of freshly dug earth and burning metal. Climbing onto my knees I look down and see smoke. The box is lit up again; searing flashes of lightning; claps of thunder.
‘Dilys, it’s all right,’ Grace says. I turn and see her moving down the row towards me. ‘It’s all right.’
‘Get her out,’ Emily says, and I see them staring; strangers turning to watch as Grace leads me up the stairs to the door at the back of the balcony. I turn round and see Mr Price lift a pistol out of the box. ‘No need to fear,’ he says, holding it above his head. ‘It is completely rusted!’
‘Mr Price. Hold it still, one more for the camera,’ a man shouts. He reaches up and brings a flame to the top of the T-shaped frame he is holding and there is another flash, another bang.
Oh God!
‘It’s just the camera,’ Grace says. ‘Look, nothing happened.’
But that’s why every breath I take feels like a bitter frost, that’s why my blood is freezing and my body won’t stop shaking.
The box is open and nothing has happened. Nothing has changed.
The Answer
‘Listen to me, Dilys, you’ve got to calm down.’ Grace looks through the glass of the door and into the foyer. ‘They are starting to come out.’
‘I thought – when he took the lid off – I thought something terrible—’
‘I know, try not to think about that now.’
‘It made me think of my brothers on the battlefield. What they must have gone through, what they must have seen.’
She is holding her umbrella over both
of us, rubbing my back with her other hand. ‘You’ve had a shock,’ she says gently, ‘we both have, but now we know …’
But I don’t know. I can’t make sense of it. There are too many thoughts, too many, all running in different directions, too quick for me to catch them. All trapped inside my head like spiders in a jar.
Octavia said the box was safe. She said he couldn’t have it.
‘They are coming out,’ Grace says, leading me down the stone steps away from the door. ‘Emily and the others won’t be long.’ She turns to face me. ‘Dilys, listen, we have to leave the society. You can’t go on pretending. Not now.’ For a moment there is nothing but silence, broken by the sound of the door swinging open and the chattering crowd spilling out onto the stairs.
‘We can’t leave. We can’t turn our back on the Truth.’ I can hear myself saying it but the words don’t belong to me. Not any more. Perhaps they never did. You can’t go on pretending. Not now.
I open my mouth to speak but Grace has turned away. ‘You want to hear the truth, Dilys?’ She hands the umbrella to me and steps out into the rain, walking up to a young woman who is one of the first to come down the steps towards us.
‘What was inside?’ Grace asks her. ‘What was inside the box? We left when he picked up the pistol.’
‘Oh, you didn’t miss much after that,’ the woman says with a grin. ‘The rest was a load of ol’ nonsense. A few books – romances mainly – and a few bits and bobs, a dice-cup and some money-weights. Rather a worldly collection for a religious fanatic.’ She looks up to the sky and shudders. ‘This weather’s not easing off, is it?’ she says, and then she dashes off across the quadrant, looking as though she is trying to outrun the rain. Grace comes back to share the umbrella with me. She takes the handle again without a word.
The Rapture Page 22